


Du siehst, das ist nicht so.

by lategoodbye



Series: Ihrem Ende eilen sie zu. [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And off they are, the Oxford boy and the boy from Oxfordshire.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Du siehst, das ist nicht so.

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet immediately follows the events of 'Fugue.' The title is taken from Wagner's Parsifal, Act III. It translates into 'You see, that's not how it is.' Many thanks to Rose and Ruth for beta'ing. Please excuse any further mistakes; English isn't my first language.

He takes him to the pub and, when that doesn't help, home. 'Home' is a dingy little bedsit north of the Bodleian, just off Parks Road, in comfortable walking distance to the Turf, where he's bought him a pint of lager he didn't even so much as touch. For a man who spends much of his after-hours in pubs Morse is surprisingly narrow-minded when it comes to his choice of drink.

And for a man who has spent the past few days spouting nonsense about operas whose names Jakes couldn't spell if his life depended on it his record collection is surprisingly small, not to mention woefully neglected.

“You make a habit of leaving those all over the floor?”

Jakes gingerly steps out of the way, the tip of his polished black shoe only half missing the sepia face of a distinguished looking bloke staring solemnly up at him from the cover of a faded record. Opera, by the looks of it, but whether the old sod is supposed to be Morse's precious Wagner or Benjamin bloody Britten Jakes can't possibly say. The truth of the matter is that he doesn't give a toss one way or the other. He hasn't come here for a nice chat about what Morse tragically thinks is rhythm and soul.

So he lights a cigarette while Morse busies himself by switching on two table lamps on opposite ends of the rather smallish room. Not that it helps improve matters. The remnants of a modest meal take up most of a rickety dining table. The small bed by the windows has been made, but hurriedly so. The white, crinkled sheets are peeking out beneath a brown, worn-looking blanket. A buff-coloured eiderdown has been spread carelessly on top of the covers, giving this side of the room the look of a scarcely-visited cell rather than a bedsit.

“Thought you're supposed to have been in the army,” Jakes teases half-heartedly and flicks cigarette ash into an empty glass that has been left by the bed. Moriarty's Police Law is lying splayed open on the duvet. Jakes hates that book with a passion. He has a feeling it's the one thing Morse and he have in common.

“What's that got to do with anything?”

Morse is picking up record covers off the run-down, wooden floor. The wide-eyed innocence in his soft-spoken and cultured voice is only slightly muted by whatever it was that Cronyn has said to rile him up. Jakes never knows if Morse is being sincere or taking the piss. It's only due to what Thursday has said to him (“See him home, why don't you, Sergeant.”) and the all too obvious loneliness in the striking blue eyes that he manages to bite down on some of his ever-present anger.

“You play one of your fancy records and I'm leaving,” he says instead.

Morse looks down at his armful of classical music, then carefully puts the records on the shelf by the door, back where they probably belong. When he finally doffs his coat he does so gingerly. He immediately gravitates towards a dark brown bottle stashed away none too subtly by the little stove in the kitchenette.

“I've only some Scotch.” Already more than half-empty, by the looks of it.

“Not picky, am I?” Jakes replies through a puff of smoke. He watches as Morse pours himself a generous amount of whisky and downs it in one big gulp. It's only then that he meets his obligations as a good host and empties the rest of the bottle into two half-pint glasses.

“Didn't think you had it in you,” Jakes hears himself offer without much of an explanation. The truth is that he himself doesn't quite know what he means by it. He isn't much impressed by Morse's drinking habits, that much is for certain, and the Scotch itself leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“No,” Morse agrees, his voice sounding hollow and resigned in the dusky quiet of the little flat. So now what? Is he expecting a pat on the back? Perhaps the old man should have sent someone else then. He hadn't though, had he? It's Jakes who'd miss out on all of the good stuff down at the nick.

“You being returned to general duties?”

It isn't much of a question, come to think of it. It's all a matter of procedure, really. Surely Morse knows that as well as he does. The truth is that Jakes feels like saying something aggravating, something that'll tear at the mask of sullen apathy Morse seems so intent on wearing today. Anything to see the forlorn look on his face change into annoyance and determination. Jakes can deal with that, at least. And it isn't as if they haven't danced to this particular tune before.

Sure enough Morse rises up to the challenge. He clucks his tongue, the infuriating ghost of a noise that he still somehow manages to half turn into an impatient groan somewhere down his throat.

“Obviously.” He turns away, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

And off they are, the Oxford boy and the boy from Oxfordshire. Jakes smirks. It's obvious to him who'll be the winner of this round.

“Beggars can't be choosers, right?”

The exasperated little sigh should have ended matters right then and there. But Morse manages not to sound defeated at all. How does the way he doesn't meet his gaze get right under his skin, Jakes wonders. He swallows much of his own scotch and leaves his glass on the table by the bed. The smoke of his half-finished cigarette zigzags through the stale air as he throws his hands up in exasperation.

“What's it matter to you? You're a DC. Just leave the policing to the grown-ups, yeah?”

“A lot of good that did you,” comes the prompt reply, quiet and unexpected – a surprise perhaps even to Morse himself. He hasn't moved much since he's decided to just stand there clutching his empty glass; a stranger having lost his way in the middle of his own flat. It's enough to make Jakes want to grab him by the lapels of his ill-fitting suit and shake some humility and sense into him.

“You think Cronyn didn't gift-wrap all those stupid little riddles especially for you? It was you at the train depot and you under the Bodleian. Your picture in the papers! You up on that roof! Isn't that what you wanted? 'To be clever is to be alone.' My heart bleeds.”

Bitterness has turned his last few words into a snarl. It's not jealousy, at least that's what Jakes keeps telling himself. And why would he be envious of someone who attracts the likes of Mason Gull? E. Morse who goes about the station thinking he's so much better than everyone else; who thinks car theft and vandalism are beneath his Lonsdale-trained intellect; who thinks that sharing in on the rounds with the other detectives down by the pub is a waste of his precious time. Detective Constable Morse, who's somehow, _somehow_ , tricked even the guv'nor into falling arse over tit for his fancy words and even fancier theories. Always two steps ahead and, more often than not, completely off the beaten path, that's where you'll find Morse on any given day of the week.

Only now he seems to have given up.

“Why won't you ever stop?”

His face is an open book but not to Jakes who's so used to deception that he's even come to expect it when he stares at himself through the mirror. The brutal and painful honesty of the question confuses him. There must be more to it than simple truth. Where are the trap doors? Where's the punch line? He's momentarily taken back.

“You really think it's that easy?”

Morse seems to contemplate Jakes's question, then he softly shakes his head.

“No, I don't.”

Finally he moves, past Jakes to the side of his bed. He seems intent on making sure that this is to be the end of their conversation, and had Jakes decided to leave right then and there he'd never even have looked back. Jakes has thought about it, of course. Ever since he's set foot into Morse's little bedsit. He isn't even supposed to be here. He _was_ supposed to drop Morse off and then take the Jag back to the station; have a couple of pints with his mates and call it an early night. It's not only Morse who hasn't had much of a kip during the past few days. Just because he doesn't make a habit of sleeping in his clothes and combs back his hair once in a while doesn't mean that he isn't exhausted. Alright, so he hasn't been the one to take one for the team – a fact that Jakes becomes only too aware of when Morse unbuttons his jacket and carefully peels it off his hunched shoulders. The starched shirt underneath – a nice cut that suits Morse's slim frame far better than the few shirts he apparently seems to own, and irons every few days to make it appear as if he has a vast selection of hand-me-downs to choose from – has definitely seen better days. And maybe, if Morse would have faced him directly and not presented him with a prime view of a bright red stain that looks neither old nor completely dried up, he'd have let it go and left. Morse doesn't make it his own problem so why the hell should he care?

This, however, is unacceptable. What kind of a man does he take him for? One to just up and leave? Does Morse think so little of him?

“Is that my shirt?”

“Likely.”

Morse's off-hand comment sounds just a little bit too smug to Jakes's ears. He snuffs out his cigarette and lets it drop into his makeshift ashtray.

“Right,” he decides on a whim. “Take it off.”

“What?”

He's clearly startled Morse. The old metal bed frame creaks accusingly when one of his legs bumps into it as he turns around to face him. The sudden movement stops Jakes in his tracks. He cocks his head, impatience painting his handsome face both a colder and harsher colour until he visibly forces himself to relax.

“You heard me,” he says, but kinder this time.

“Why?”

It's quite clear to Jakes that Morse's question is meant to sound casual and unconcerned but he can't quite keep from grimacing as he looks down at his surprisingly well-manufactured shoes. And now Morse is definitely taking him for a fool.

“Most people know better than to trust some quack in a bow tie whose only job it is to cut you open on a metal table; not sew you back together.”

Morse's nose crinkles in disdain.

“His name is Dr DeBryn.”

“I know that!” Jakes snaps and he's about to follow it up with the next-best insult that comes to his mind. About how Morse spends a lot of time getting cosy with the hunchbacked little pathologist. Maybe that's why he's always making such a fuss around the stiffs. Perhaps he'd like to faint right into DeBryn's arms – a thought disturbing enough to make him reconsider.

“Look, you should get yourself checked out.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “By one of those pretty nurses, yeah? Bet she'd kiss it all better.”

Morse is undoing his tie now. His strange blue eyes are illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows are playing across his face but he's still and serious as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. Jakes's shirt. Without his tie on, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, he looks like a completely different man. Older somehow. Unwound.

“Not a one in sight, is there?” he says.

“Funny.” Jakes's mouth has suddenly run dry. He's reaching for his pack of cigarettes but then thinks better of it. He wouldn't mind another mouthful of Scotch, either. “They teach you that up at College?”

“Not really.”

Morse shrugs, unperturbed by the insinuation. He has now abandoned his task entirely, and as he turns around he closes the distance between them, hesitation slowing down his movements as he half-closes his eyes and parts his lips. Jakes has always thought of the man as shy and inexperienced but there's also a purpose to him; a sort of naïve resolve that he finds hard to resist.

The kiss, when it finally comes, isn't much of a surprise to either of them. Morse's lips are dry and warm. A promise of Scotch lingers as Jakes turns his head.

“It's not like that,” he says, but he can't bring himself to move away.

“It's nothing.” Morse whispers, breath hot against Jakes's cheek and then not hesitating to lean in a second time; his mouth searching for the answer Jakes is at first so reluctant to give.

Nothing. That he can live with but he's ill-prepared for the desperate intensity of Morse's kiss. His tongue feels searing hot, his fingertips are cold as they ghost against the sensitive skin of his neck. Morse's hips buck against his in a frantic attempt to get even closer. For a moment there they are completely out of sync as Morse steps on Jakes's toes and almost loses his balance. Does he even _know_ what he's doing?

He must be, Jakes thinks, as he feels the same cold fingers digging into the thin fabric of the shirt he wears underneath his jacket.

Until now Jakes has managed to hold himself back. Being kissed by Morse feels a bit like being swept away by the tide; or what Jakes imagines the tide must be like. He's only been by the sea a handful of times; Brighton, Blackpool, a weekend trip to the outskirts of Bristol, but that's beside the point and anyway, Jakes is not a passive man, even if he is intrigued by Morse's single-minded attention. It's seldom that he's not the one in control and he feels like it should bother him more than it does. After all here he is, being well-nigh claimed by someone he happens to think is the most insufferable, infuriatingly irritating person he's ever met, but whatever this is feels more like an extension of their many quarrels than a peace offering. Nothing's changed between them, and so Jakes's hands begin to roam.

He's often wondered what it must feel like to tug at Morse's hair; to bury his knuckles into those unruly curls; to dishevel completely what Morse himself never seems to take his time to tame. Letting his long fingers run through the light brown strands feels surprisingly soft. There's often a crispness to people's hair that comes with using sprays and pomade, and not many women allow what Morse leaves uncommented as his teeth graze against Jakes's lips.

There are freckles dusting his cheeks and forehead and his skin does no longer seem quite so pale, quite so frustratingly pristine. Jakes wants to map those freckles, make them his; to explore the uneven line of them along his collarbone, exposed by the open shirt collar. It takes a while to convince Morse that there's other uses for his mouth. He hears a soft groan escape his lips as he lets his attention wander elsewhere, in a wet line down his neck. Morse's hands are tugging at the lapels of his jacket. He manages to push the expensive fabric out of the way and Jakes shrugs out of it, not without catching the jacket in one hand and letting it fall over the back of one of Morse's rickety chairs. Now they're even, he thinks, as Morse's fingers blindly worm their way beyond his tie, opening button after button of his own shirt but Jakes is busy following the trail of freckles, myriads of them, until a light tickle of chest hair and the cotton of his vest stop his slow progress. He is determined though, and he grips Morse's hips and pulls him closer. There's a quiet hiss of discomfort that Jakes tries very hard to ignore until the palm of his right hand brushes against something clammy and half-stiff and he abruptly stops and draws back until he's stopped by Morse's hand against the nape of his neck.

“Looks much worse than it feels?” Jakes asks but the mockery dripping from his words is swallowed by the longing in the depths of his voice.

“Doesn't matter.”

Morse busies himself by exploring the vulnerable space between Jakes's shoulder and neck. For a moment there Jakes is inclined to agree but no matter how good Morse's tongue feels against his over-sensitive skin he can't bring himself to let it go.

“Yeah, it does matter, Morse,” he says, anger furrowing his brow.

It's that exasperated little sigh again that stops Jakes from unconsciously caressing the spot where the thick fabric of Morse's trousers meets the untidy mess that is his shirt. And anyway, they can't go on much further than that. Not with Morse still bearing the marks Gull has so cruelly and deliberately inflicted upon him.

“Why do you care?” Morse breathes against the wet trail left by his kisses. The sudden change between hot and cold makes Jakes's skin there break out in goosebumps.

“It's not about me caring,” he replies impatiently and more than a little scornful. “It's about you and your bloody martyr complex.”

Morse looks up at this, his reddened lips marred by a frown.

“I'm not sure you're using that correctly.”

Morse sounds innocent enough and he seems eager to return to the task at hand but Jakes knows the moment has passed and he abruptly untangles himself from Morse's embrace and does his shirt up.

“Right. I'm off then,” he says and goes for his cigarettes again; then for his jacket. This time Morse doesn't stop him.

“Right,” he repeats and folds his arms in front of his chest, wincing as the movement betrays his infuriating lack of concern. Jakes pretends not to notice. He lights up instead, the smoke lingering heavily in the air, like so many things better left unsaid.

“Don't forget about that shirt.” It sounds like an empty threat, or a challenge that Morse accepts only too readily.

“I won't.”

There's no disappointment in his voice as Jakes leaves. No regret as Jakes's footsteps echo through the stairwell; no hesitation as he starts the black Mark I and drives off. They both know he'll be back, and they'll be at it again sooner rather than later. It's what they've been doing right from the start, and after all what's a kiss amidst well-established rivalry?


End file.
